The Raven and the Cross

by C. R. May

  Erik watched them go, his eyes darting from battle flag to battle flag as they wooded the air; and then he had it in sight, the white bull flag of Olaf Cuaran, teased out in the morning breeze as the Dublin Norse jogged to war. Lowering his gaze he began to study the faces of the leading men, but although they had never met he soon realised that the man he had come to kill was not among them. Thorstein had drawn the same conclusion, and the huskarl spat his disdain as the southern wood continued to spew spearmen. ‘Cuaran is not there, Erik,’ he said. ‘He must have been with the horsemen.’

  Erik nodded in agreement. ‘Good, then we can stick to the plan.’ He cast a look in his huskarl’s direction. ‘It was to be expected. The king of Dublin was hardly going to be walking to the battlefield.’ Erik’s eyes wandered across the ground before him, and his excitement mounted as he saw again just how well king Ruaidri had chosen his ground. The tail of the allied army was just exiting the woodlands to the south, hurrying forward to add their strength to the push as the first shouts and the clatter of steel on steel began to drift down from the heights. Little more than a hundred paces separated the bridge from the place where the roadway took its turn westwards, and Erik flashed Sturla a look of triumph as the last of the southern army disappeared from view. ‘Godi: hoist the war flag.’

  The banner man had the bindings off in a trice, and the men around him began to jostle like thirsty men at the ale tap as they readied themselves for their own attack. As they had hoped, the suddenness with which the army of Uí Néill had materialised across their path had caused the southern force to race forward to engage. If any men among them had thought to leave a rearguard at the river crossing the idea had become lost in the rush, and Erik glanced across to his left where the Eriksson brothers stood at the head of their men. Gamli saw his father looking across and he gave his brother a nudge as he made a comment, and Erik snorted as he saw that Harald was already grinning as his face came around. He threw the boys a grin of his own in return as they gave him the thumbs up, and Thorstein made him snort again as he tutted at his side. ‘Cheeky sods; I don’t know where they get it from.’

  The sound of fighting began to ebb away, and Erik turned back to peer through the shadows. The rest of the men were on their feet, gathering behind their leaders: Gauti; Thorfin Ketilsson; the Orcadians bunching behind Erland and Arnkel as they fixed their gaze on the point where they expected the enemy to reappear.

  A great cheer rent the chill morning air and Erik rolled his shoulders, loosening and warming muscles for the work to come. The hurrah had been followed by whoops and taunts, and although they carried to the Norse in an unfamiliar tongue everyman standing in the riverside copse recognised its importance. Disorganised and forced by the narrowness of the road to fight in line of march, the first attack of the southern army must have been thrown back with ease by the defenders on the hill. In a very few moments the situation was confirmed as the first of the Dubliners began to spill out onto the riverside, and Erik shifted the weight of his shield on its carrying strap as he took up Jomal and watched them come. The warriors began to fan out onto the meadow as more and more arrived, and Erik felt the men at his shoulder tense as the moment to spring forward came closer. As the first of the returning horsemen began to funnel down onto the plain, Erik spoke softly as he watched the leaders attempt to bring order to the chaos: ‘Sturla?’

  The banner man took a pace forward so that he was at his king’s shoulder: ‘Yes lord, I am here.’

  ‘Get ready.’

  Erik felt the huskarl’s arm brush against his mail shirt as the horn came up, and Sturla spat softly to clear his mouth of spittle as the last of the mounted men reached the clearing. The riverside was far too constricted to contain an army the size of the southern force, and Erik watched with mounting satisfaction as the horsemen pushed their mounts into the throng as they strived to bring order to the chaos, all the while casting fearful glances across their shoulder that the army of Uí Néill might come sweeping down to drive them into the Boyne.

  Erik’s gaze fixed on the flag of Olaf Cuaran, the great white bull gleaming like ice in the rays of the sun slanting up the valley as the men beneath it formed their skjald-borg. Helgrim had also picked it out, ‘there is our boy,’ and Erik’s eyes moved across to a group of horsemen as they forced their way through. At his side, Helgrim added another comment in wonder. ‘Riding beneath a cross?’

  Erik looked. The rider had to be Cuaran, the way those surrounding the big rider ringed him in despite the fact that they were among friends was all the confirmation that he needed. But there were no rings of gold or silver glinting on his arms as was normal among Norsemen and Erik gave a shrug. ‘Perhaps we are wrong to be surprised, not only has Olaf spent his whole life among Christians, Oswald Thane told me he has taken baptism.’ The leading men of the southerners were finally beginning to coax the army into a form of order ready to renew their attack, but they had run out of time and all heads turned to the north as war horns blared and king Ruaidri’s greatest fighting men burst from the tree line. It was the moment that Erik had been waiting for, and as the men on the riverbank scrambled to form their defence Erik snapped a command:

  ‘Now!’

  Sturla’s horn had sounded for less than a heartbeat before Erik was clear of the cover and running hard, angling towards the Boyne as the Erikssons led their own men out and along the bank. Their job was to take the bridge itself, throwing a defensive screen around the approach to deny the enemy any hope of retreat. Erik looked up as he pounded on, his eyes fixed upon Olaf Cuaran’s battle flag as Helgrim and Thorstein moved to his shoulder. Men were beginning to turn their way, the horror of their situation frozen in their expressions as they saw hundreds of Norsemen spill from cover only fifty paces from their unprotected flank, but Erik dodged aside before he could come within axe swing of the nearest as he began to close in on the man he wanted dead.

  The clash of steel on wood and leather told him that the Uí Néill champions had hit the defenders hard, and Erik was forced aside as king Conalach’s men were pushed back under the pressure. More and more Irishmen were coming between him and his goal as king Ruaidri’s men drove a wedge through the panicked defenders, and Erik’s progress slowed and then came to a halt even as his sons peeled away to make their stand at the bridge. Seeing the only crossing place in the hands of their enemies, consternation swept through the southern fighters. Men began to stream away, throwing shields and weapons aside as they launched themselves into the Boyne.

  Erik wound his body, sweeping Jomal in deadly arcs as he hewed a path through the terrorised ranks of the enemy, but even as heads and limbs flew a quick look to the west told him that the white bull battle flag was moving further away with every passing moment. Erik went to push forward again but a tug on his mail shirt pulled him back, and before he could turn on the assailant a riderless horse struck him a glancing blow, spinning him around and knocking his war axe from his grasp. It had been a powerful strike, but Helgrim and Thorstein were already stepping up as he scrambled to recover his wits, and they threw their shoulders into the boards of their shields and formed a cordon around him. As Erik’s eyes regained their focus he saw that Sturla Godi was stood before him. ‘Sorry about the tug lord,’ his banner man said, ‘but you were about to be trampled.’ He jerked his chin to the south. ‘And for no good reason. Cuaran has already made the far bank.’

  Erik looked as the rest of his men swarmed around him, hacking and slashing at the fleeing enemy as they drove them further away from their king. The River Boyne was a boiling cauldron as a mass of desperate men looked to save their skins; already the first islands of death were collecting in the shallows or drifting slowly downstream. Erik’s rival for the Northumbrian crown had gained the southern bank, and he watched as Cuaran’s huskarls held their shields high to guard against the fall of arrow or spear. The crew of the Draki had driven any danger far away now, and Erik watched as men pointed out his bloodied axe war flag to their lor
d. Olaf Cuaran, king of Dublin, raised himself in the saddle as his gaze followed an outstretched arm, and Erik shared a smile with those at his side. The bastard had survived, but the most important part of Erik’s summer of deception had been achieved.

  19

  KING’S GARTH

  A burst of light made the men look up, and Thorstein wiped the rain from his face as he waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Those sat nearest the tent flap raised their voices in protest as the big huskarl shook his hair like a rain lashed dog, but he shot them all a cheeky smile as the woollen panel settled back into place. ‘No doubt about it,’ he said. ‘The sky to westward is brightening bit by bit, she has just about blown herself out.’

  All faces turned to Erik as a cup was handed across to the weatherbeaten lookout. The king nodded as he confirmed his earlier decision. ‘Once this rain clears away we move the stores back onboard the ships. If the morrow dawns clear, we sail.’

  The first storm that autumn had swept the slopes of Lundy for a day or so, but the nights were drawing in quickly and thoughts were beginning to turn from sunshine and balmy nights beneath the stars to the cloying mud and icy winds of the northern winter. They had spent the remainder of the summer after putting Olaf Cuaran to flight raiding around the lands which bordered the Irish Sea, and picking off any trading ships which were foolhardy or desperate enough to risk the passage. As the days shortened and the birds began to head south Erik’s ships had followed, swapping the rocky headlands and sandy bays for gentler shores.

  Lundy had once again become their home, the same island now warded by Anlaf Crow in his Howe, and Erik’s fleet had ranged throughout the west, harrying both sides of the Severn Estuary and the southern shore of Ireland opposite. Bypassing the Norse settlements at Wexford and Waterford, Erik had spent midsummer bottling up the traders in Cork, cruising off the entrance to the sound, taxing any shipmen and locals who attempted to make the sea.

  As opposition grew to their deprivations Erik and his oath-sworn turned their attentions back to the East, burning the hunting lodge of King Eadred’s ally the Welsh king of Morgannwg, Morgan Hen ab Owain, at a place called Dinas Powys. The hilltop retreat and its outbuildings had provided a welcome haul in the form of hunting hounds and a fine collection of trained hawks in addition to the silver which such places always had in abundance, but that was not the reason it had been chosen. Located only a few miles from the king’s main settlement at Caerdyf the flames would have lit the western skyline, and Erik had followed up the raid by cruising off the bay which lay before the town, showing his flag and chasing the ships there into the safety of the inner harbour.

  Every king and ruler on the island of Britain would soon be aware that Erik Bloodaxe was raiding in the south-west, about as far from York as it was possible to sail and still remain within British waters; there were bound to be rumours that he had been offered the kingship there and these would no doubt have found their way to king Eadred’s ears. Arinbjorn hersir had already spent the summer in Northumbria, greasing palms and helping the archbishop to prepare the ground for his arrival, and Erik was in no doubt that the southern English king would have seeded the kingdom with spies and informers. Now, with the harvest moon on the wane and the crops safely stowed in barn or hayrick the army of the south would be back in their shires, the campaigning season over for another year. With the next autumn blow expected at any time Erik knew that the time for guile was past. The fourth crown of his lifetime awaited him in the ancient city of York; the time had arrived for him to fulfil his destiny.

  The harsh cries of gulls shredded the morning air as mooring ropes were plucked from the air by eager hands, and Erik’s salt stained boots were taking the gangplank before the hull had kissed the jetty. Arinbjorn was there wearing a smile as wide as the Humber they had recently navigated, and the foster-brothers shared an embrace as the men began to clatter ashore. ‘Welcome home King Erik,’ Arinbjorn said as they drew apart. ‘Men who have arrived here from the West say that you have had a busy summer!’

  Erik snorted. ‘It is true we had our fair share of adventures, but nothing as important as the work you did in York.’ He regarded his oldest friend with a warmth he reserved for no other. ‘You have always had my back, even before we saw off Bolli Sigurdsson and his old nag back at the Gulathing when I had more fluff on my arse than my chin.’

  Arinbjorn chuckled at the mention of the horse fight and he sought to downplay the praise as any man would, but the look of pride reflected in his eyes showed how much he valued the esteem in which he was held by his king. ‘Come and see the city, Erik,’ he breathed as he rediscovered his voice. ‘It will take your breath away.’

  The pair put their backs to the docks and the chaotic scrum of a fleet disembarking men and belongings, and Erik finally swapped the spring of timber beneath his feet for the feel of good solid soil after what seemed like a lifetime at sea. A crowd had gathered to gawp at their new king, but Erik’s face broke into a smile as a familiar face hardened from it. Flanked by spearmen Sigurd stepped forward and inclined his head in greeting.

  ‘Raise your chin lad,’ Erik gently chided his son. ‘You are of the line of Fairhair; we show deference to no man.’

  Sigurd Eriksson raised his gaze as instructed, but the look of uncertainty that lingered at his father’s words was quickly chased away by the glow of pride he saw reflected on the king’s face. ‘You have grown over the course of the summer,’ Erik said as he ran his eyes over the young man’s stocky frame, his shoulder length blonde hair. He clapped Sigurd on the shoulder and indicated that he fall in at his side. ‘We shall have to find you a ship and men of your own, before you knock me on the head and make off in the Draki!’

  Thorstein and Helgrim Smiter had joined them now, their eyes stabbing the crowd as they guarded against treachery, and the soft rustle of his war flag came to his ears as Sturla Godi reached his station. Erik raised his eyes as they waited for the men to form up for the march into York, and his heart swelled with pride as he took in the sprawl of the place he would make his own. Roofs of thatch marched away towards the nearby city, a monstrous hayfield in every shade of brown, but his eyes were drawn above the multitude towards the wonder of northern Britain. Climbing towards the grey clouds which hid heaven itself rose the great columns and towers of York Minster, the seat of the archbishop and beating heart of the Christian church he would soon swear to uphold and protect.

  Erik shook his head in awe, wondering at the irony that the gods had chosen him as a defender of Christ after all that had gone before even as a familiar voice sounded in his ears. ‘God’s house is a wonder, lord,’ the voice said, the pride obvious in its tone despite the fact that its owner had spent a lifetime living within its shadow, ‘is it not? To think that the hands of mortal men could build such a thing.’

  Erik replied without shifting his gaze, marvelling at the shimmer of glass in the great windows as the weak light of a Northumbrian autumn day played upon them. ‘Is that the place I will be crowned, Oswald?’

  ‘It is lord,’ the thane confirmed proudly, ‘the witnesses are already assembled in the town and your wife awaits you in the king’s garth.’ Erik glanced aside at the mention of Gunnhild, surprising himself that he had failed to realise that she would have already arrived from distant Orkney along with young Sigurd. No doubt the pair had been passed off as kin of Arinbjorn until his arrival, and he allowed himself a smile at the thought of their reunion as Oswald Thane motioned that Erik lead his host forward along the stone laid roadway to the nearby portal into the city. ‘All the main highways are now known by the Norse word, gate,’ Oswald said as they walked. ‘So that will help you to find your bearings; you should feel at home in no time. In some ways the city has undergone tremendous changes since what the chroniclers termed the Micelhere, the Great Army arrived in the middle of the last century, but in others largely remained unaltered. English stræt became Norse gata and the name of the settlement itself changed from E
oferwic to Jorvik. But folk still need to rub along together and swap news and the like with their neighbours,’ he said with a disarming smile, ‘and traders cannot make a profit if nobody knows where to find them. Jorvik is often spoken now as York and gata as gate, names which seem to roll easily from both tongues.’

  The roadway rose slightly as it drew nearer to the city, and the crowds grew as the land firmed away from the bogginess of the riverside. Erik ran his eyes across the defences as they walked, and Oswald was astute enough to recognise the question which was forming in his mind. ‘You were expecting the city to be ringed by walls of stone, lord?’ Erik confirmed that he had. ‘The walls were in a state of disrepair when the Danish army settled the city in eight sixty-seven.’ Erik threw the Northumbrian a sidelong look and Oswald explained. ‘That denotes that eight hundred and sixty-seven years have passed since the birth of our saviour, Jesus Christ. It is a form of marking the passing of time common across Christendom; you too will find it very useful in both conversation and correspondence once you become accustomed to it.’ Erik nodded although he had his doubts, and Oswald continued with his explanation as spearmen shooed the onlookers back to a safe distance. ‘To the North, South and West the Danes removed all but one of the Roman towers and replaced the dilapidated sections of the old stone walls with those of the type they were more familiar with.’ He indicated the city walls nearer the River Ouse with a sweep of his hand. ‘A ditch and bank, topped with a timber palisade and walkway.’